


Diversions

by winchestersinthedrift



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, Swesson, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Dean,’ he says, cautiously, not because he’s nervous but because he’s thought about this all day and now he really wants it, ‘whatta you think about - er, would it be weird to - would it be too weird if you, uh, dressed up like Dean Smith tomorrow?’</p><p>The boys try out a new roleplay. They aren't all that good at it. That's OK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diversions

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @themegalosaurus for the prompt and for being a stellar beta as always!

Sam’s the one who brings it up. They’re working a case in the middle of Arkansas, research really for another job so not very urgent, and most days they spend in the local morgue, going through aisles of boxes of old medical files. There’s an office at the back where someone sits for three hours a day. Technically that’s how long the archive’s open, three hours in the middle of the afternoon, but it didn’t take long for Dean to get a key from the custodian downtown.

For two days now Dean’s been mostly hanging in the office, feet up on the desk, chewing on a pen or rolling it between his lips and looking through the boxes of files Sam brings in from the shelves. They’re both getting bored, they’re getting to be on uncomfortably close terms with the nest of mice behind the furnace, and the offerings at the single diner open past six are becoming increasingly dire. Dean has stopped relying on the menu descriptions at all and is just working his way through the entrees, top to bottom. He hasn’t found one he’s liked yet, which they both think is saying something.

They also haven’t fucked for three days and Sam is starting to feel it. The morning of the third day he stands in the doorway and leans against the frame, holding a box labelled “More Archive Stuff 1968- ?” (which is hardly helpful, a fact they’ve been swearing blackly about the entire time). Dean looks up at him almost right away, because that’s what Dean does.

‘What?’ he says.

‘Nothing,’ says Sam, but when he’s back in the stacks he adjusts himself. It’d be too weird, wouldn’t it? They’ve role-played before, sure, but it feels like there’s something particularly fucked-up about doing it with an angel-manipulated fantasy. On the other hand, Dean’s wearing a light-blue shirt today and it doesn’t take much for Sam to imagine suspenders over it, and –

He brings it up that night while they’re waiting for pizza.

‘Dean,’ he says, cautiously, not because he’s nervous but because he’s thought about this all day and now he really wants it, ‘whatta you think about - er, would it be weird to - would it be too weird if you, uh, dressed up like Dean Smith tomorrow?’

Dean looks hard at the TV, then at the ceiling, then over at Sam.

‘OK,’ he says.

 

Sam waits outside the little office, nervously. He’s into it still but he’s feeling a little ghost of stage fright, which is dumb cause he was Sam Wesson, but -

‘Yes,’ says Dean, crisp and impersonal, when he knocks on the door; and Sam hasn’t seen Dean yet this morning cause that was one of the rules, but here he is wearing a goddamn pinstripe shirt and standing not quite the way that Dean stands: stiffer, a little more forcefully upright, tense but with a different tension than Dean usually carries around in his muscles. Not vigilance but high-strung control. Sam stops in the doorway, impressed. Dean is _bringing_ it.

He thumbs the cheap polyester of his polo shirt – the colour is a little off, but it was the closest he could find - and clears his throat. ‘Er- good morning, Mr Smith.’

Dean glares at him so convincingly that Sam is a little unnerved.

‘What is it, Wesson? I’ve got a pile of deadlines right now.’

Sam hasn’t planned this out at all, and flails for a second, but there it is - Dean’s mouth twitches into a deep dimple at one corner, and Sam squares his shoulders. He’s thought about going full-on cheeseball porno (‘I’m supposed to get all the packages off this morning, sir, and I’ve come to see about yours”) and he’d sort of planned to do it, as his default, but now that he’s in the moment and there’s a roll of warm arousal over his skin he can’t, it feels weird. Instead, all he does is stand there and say

‘I just wondered if I could - be of assistance, Mr Smith.’ (Would Wesson say that? Or would he say ‘help’? Sam glares at his Wesson-self for not paying better attention to his diction.)

‘With what?’ Dean isn’t helping him out at all here. He’s standing at the desk with his body slightly blocked away from Sam and a stack of envelopes in his hand (nice work on the props, Sam thinks in admiration). ‘You can’t read my mail, Wesson.’

‘No, sir.’ Damn, Dean is going to town with the dick quota here. Well, fine. Sam can play hardball. He walks around to the front of the desk and splays his fingers over it, fingertips pressed hard into the surface of the desk. ‘No, I can’t do that, sir, but I could fuck you on your desk. If you’d like that.’

Dean looks up in something like disapproving arousal, which until this minute Sam didn’t know was a thing.

‘Smith would _never_ fuck on his desk,’ he says.

‘Dude!’ says Sam, bristling, ‘don’t break character for chrissake.’

‘Just sayin,’ Dean says, whispering, like somehow he’s decided it’s not breaking character if he’s not using his full vocal range. ‘Did you meet the guy? Full-on anal.’

‘I’ll give _you_ full-on anal,’ says Sam, automatically, because he can’t help it, and they glare at each other and struggle not to laugh. There’s a pause.

‘Mr. Smith,’ says Sam, and this time his voice is deeper, because he’s not letting Dean derail this so easily, goddamit, ‘I think you need to relax. You’re working too hard. Come let me take care of you.’ It’s a cheesy line but this time there’s real tension between them. When Dean comes around the desk, stiff and square-shouldered and not breaking eye contact, Sam grabs him roughly by the belt and jerks him so that they’re chest to chest.

Dean really likes it when he does that.

‘You’re working too hard,’ Sam says again, growly, and Dean’s breath goes a little ragged. He’d been into the idea of trying this, into the fact that Sam brought it up at all, but he hadn’t been totally sure it would work. For either of them. But now Sam’s hand is knuckled up just above Dean’s cock and he’s stretching out the seams of that polo shirt just _right_ and Dean is, yeah, ok, he’s optimistic.

Sam thunks down onto his knees, hard, and Dean backs up a little and gets his hands gripped over the edge of a little side table. Sam keeps the buckle of his belt fisted in one hand and curls his lower lip up over his bottom teeth, and Dean’s not sure what just happened but his dick just went from Nicely Interested to Holy Fuck.

‘No,’ Sam says, 'don’t touch anything. Just me.’

Dean’s hands hover in the air uncertainly for a second and then he steps away from the table and puts his hands in Sam’s hair, near the roots. Sam jerks at Dean’s belt and Dean tilts his hips towards him, breathing heavier now. Sam slips a thumb into Dean’s fly and looks up the slope of his brother’s body.

‘Mr Smith,’ he says, low and easy, ‘unbutton your shirt.’ Dean lets go of Sam’s hair and does it, slowly slips each button out of its hole, one-two-three-four, and just as things are getting interesting he suddenly remembers he’s not really holding up his end of this whole roleplay thing. He starts a little and goes, ‘ah, Wesson, I thought we agreed - come now, good sir, surely this is not the time -’

Sam furrows his eyebrows.

‘I don’t remember Smith being a nineteenth-century English lord.’

‘Shut up, Sammy! - uhh, Wesson,’ Dean says, pink.

‘Sorry Mr Smith,’ says Sam. He keeps his tone sternly deferential but his hands are ripping open Dean’s fly and tugging his cock out from where it’s slung red and stiffening into the hollow of his hip. ‘Think I’ve found just the thing to teach me my place.’

‘Oh my god Sam,’ says Dean, rolling his eyes, and then he says in quite a different tone ‘ _oh my god Sam_ ’ because Sam’s doing this thing he’s never done before, he’s got most of Dean’s cock in his mouth but he’s got a thumb up alongside Dean’s dick and is using it to do… _something_. ‘ _Wesson_ ,’ says Dean, still weak but recovering himself enough to make a valiant reentrance into the roleplay. ‘What are - fuck - what even -’

‘New technique,’ says Sam-Wesson, pulling off Dean’s cock enough for a second to talk around it. ‘I like trying new things. You know that, Mr. Smith.’

‘Right,’ says Dean, faintly. It feels like Sam is dragging his cock into some new echelon of heaven.

‘OK,’ says Sam, too soon, and stands up. He hands Dean the lube and turns around, braces his hands on the desk.

There’s a beat where Dean stares at Sam’s ass, and it’s not just because it’s a fucking tight gorgeous ass, but also Sam’s got a thumb hooked over the back of his khakis and he’s pulling them down, way way down over the curve of his ass, and Sam is wearing a stainless steel plug.

That, just the sight of it, would be is crazy hot no matter what; but the reason why Dean’s grabbing at the side table again, why his legs are giving out, is because usually Sammy tops. I mean they’re switches technically and sometimes Dean sticks stuff up Sam’s ass and in the past, like a way back, Dean used to top more; but for a year or two now Sam’s been topping pretty much always… and Dean likes it that way, likes spreading his legs or hooking them up over Sam’s shoulders and feeling Sam take him apart from deep inside, but now he’s going a little cross-eyed cause the look of that plug is reminding his cock just what it feels like to be buried balls-deep in Sam’s puckered ass, and -

‘Sam,’ he says, with an effort, ‘what’s this?’

Sam turns his head and just, just barely catches Dean’s eye.

‘Why, you always top, Mr Smith,’ he said, and Dean’s cock jerks. He starts to say ‘do I?’ and stops because Dean Smith would never say that. _Would_ Dean Smith have topped? He doesn’t know if this is Sam’s way of mixing things up, or of, of _giving_ him this, but there’s a weird vibration in his bones and he thinks, yeah, yeah, I _do_ always top. What he says out loud is

‘Correct, Wesson, yes I do,’ and maybe it comes off a little smarmy but really mostly just aroused. He can’t stop looking at the plug in Sammy’s ass. He walks over to the desk and he’s, okay, he’s strutting a little now, he’s got a spring in his step, and -

‘Did I say you could move?’ says Wesson-Sam. Dean stops and he doesn’t know if he’s more confused or turned on. Since he doesn’t know he stays perfectly still and waits.

‘Sit down in your chair, Mr. Smith,’ says Wesson-Sam; and Dean isn’t sure exactly how he does it but he gets to his chair, to Smith’s chair, to the chair they’re pretending is Smith’s chair. It’s old and a tiny corner of Dean’s mind hopes that it’s going to survive whatever happens next.

Sam walks around to his side of the desk and strips off his polo shirt, shucks off his khakis and shorts at once and he’s naked, so naked and blinding and huge that Dean stops breathing for a minute, and Sam holds himself in a high crouch over Dean’s lap.

‘Mr Smith,’ he says, silky thick, ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’d like you to take this plug out of my ass so I can ride myself raw on your cock.’

Dean _does_ lose a minute there, he swears, his whole torso spasms and he would have jerked right off the chair if Sam’s thighs hadn’t been blocking him in. Sam leans forward, so far forward that his cock brushes against Dean’s collarbone and Dean’s hands slip up around Sam’s buttocks. One holds a cheek stretched open and with the other hand Dean works the plug out of Sam’s ass. It’s _heavy_ and Sam groans when Dean tugs it free.

‘Feel empty, Wesson?’ Dean breathes, and he’s suddenly into this in a way he wasn’t before. Before he was game, sure, and having fun. Now he’s desperate. His hands stay on Sam’s ass and pull him down and almost before Dean can lube up Sam’s sinking down, spearing himself, wriggling and grinding down on Dean’s balls to swallow his cock right to the root, and Dean thinks he might implode from the combination of being underneath Sam and being inside him. He spreads his knees and sets his hands over Sam’s thighs.

‘Sammy,’ he says, hollow, and Sam doesn’t correct him, and he’s not sure anymore if they’re role-playing. He’s still wearing the suspenders so - yes? Sam’s moving up and down on his cock and it’s goddamn good, it’s distractingly good, it’s eyeball-rolling good.

Sam’s talking.

‘Mr Smith I gotta say, I think about your cock all the time, sitting in my cubicle, making copies, eating fancy yogurt outta the staff fridge, when I’m on the phone or - fuck, oh fuck Dean - Smith - Mr Smith - I think about - the tight fucking muscle of your thighs and way your veiny cock tastes and I - I think about it when - uh- when I’m - fuck - what else did Wesson do - goddamn - when I’m - invoicing and - jesus - uuuugggh ah augh - when we drive Dean and watch tv and - clean gear and eat -’

Dean has kind of stopped breathing and his hips keep hitching up, up, frantic warm twisting, but he gasps

‘those ain’t Wesson’ and Sam says

‘no, he doesn’t get this part’ and thumbs over the head of his cock and comes, thick and spattery and stringy, all over Dean and all over the suspenders and the shirt still hanging open, and he gets a hand up and runs his thumb soft along the line of Dean’s jaw and Dean comes too, long and convulsive and running all the vital part of his being into Sammy. Just like always.


End file.
